


Little Ghost

by effydodge



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Flashbacks, M/M, Mystery, Romance, Travel, relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 20:46:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/effydodge/pseuds/effydodge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Sherlock vacation together at a bed and breakfast in Maine... which is haunted? Flashbacks to drug use after The Fall as they experience angst about their relationship.  (Formerly called 'Transatlanticism,' sorry for any confusion).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Maine

The cloying floral perfume made the wallpaper roses feel closer to hallucination than actual fact. The air blown off the ocean was helped by nautical paintings to drown the overgrowth. That’s how the room was at first: a frantic battle for dominance. But after several hours it was theirs, broken by sweat and sex, nearly ready to drown itself. 

Jim gave a sardonic, spent chuckle, then dropped in a sweaty heap across Sherlock’s back. He’d fallen asleep like that, his forehead and nose simply mashed against the upper-reaches of the man’s spine, his abdomen flush against Sherlock’s lower back. They weren’t cuddling, rather they were held indelibly together at an arbitrary point in time. This nap wasn’t about contented afterglow, it was about sheer exhaustion.

*

When they’d arrived, Jim Moriarty had been Richard Brook, his arms around Sherlock’s waist as they walked through the grounds of the beachside bed and breakfast. He’d nuzzled intermittently against Sherlock’s shoulder. He was a funhouse image of himself, what he might've been if he'd been born as dumb as most people thought.  


Guiding them from the quaint building, edging them through an unruly garden towards the beach, their proprietress rambled at them about a ghost. They stopped on a stretch of sparse lawn, tipping down through fresh morning air to a rocky beach. There was a slight mist as she pointed at the little tower. Her hand wavered a bit, clunky bangles jingling together, and since she wasnt looking, Jim scraped his teeth along Sherlock's neck. At the very edge of a far-off stretch of coastal rock, the old lighthouse protruded like a phallus.  


Sherlock's pulsed picked up. He snorted vaguely at the woman's story and looked away. His eyes scanned too quickly through the wooden beach chairs and other guests, counting the rooms up the spine of the building and searching out their bedroom. He had a very clear picture of it in his head – the dusty curios and antiques, the ‘charmingly’ mismatched furniture.  


Jim pressed a sweet kiss to his boyfriend’s cheek, then asked the woman another pointless question.

*

Jim snaked his arm from its hold on Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock groaned sleepily and inched further away, to the edge of the mattress. Jim moved with new freedom, sweat drying cold on his skin as he adjusted and he reached over the detective’s back. The ludicrous little nightstand was overcrowded with hummel figurines. As he grabbed his mobile, two cherubic, vacant little boys shook on their adjoining perch, huddled together under umbrellas.  


“Don’t bother. His flight got pushed back again,” Sherlock muttered, voice thick with sleep. He burrowed deeper into the rumpled sheets. His pillow had long-since disappeared and his long legs were tucked up against his chest.  


After a huff of breath and a petulant eye roll, Jim tossed the phone aside. There was a dull thud against thick carpeting.  


“Don’t say it like that, honey. Not like it's sooo very clever using 3G.”  


There was an edge to Jim’s voice and Sherlock glanced innocently over his shoulder. It was clear from his eyes how he felt: overly warm and sleepy, sated just looking at Jim’s naked body.  


Jim’s knees were up. He wrapped his arms around them and looked through bleary eyes towards the window. The sun was setting, turning the ocean darker by degrees. It wasn’t dramatic.  


“God you’re dull. Look at you. Calm and docile, enjoying this place like we're on honeymoon." His voice was straining, exhausted and pinched with irritation. He needed Sherlock to fight him. He needed SOMETHING. "God, I didn't want a Stepford wife! An idiot robot just bending over for a shag!” He was whining as much as yelling. His voice piqued and nearly broke and he pulled at his hair, dropping his head against his knees.  


Sherlock still didn’t respond, just turned the other way on the bed and ran a hand through his hair to flatten it. After a moment, it was clear he was shivering.  


Jim finally broke and shoved Sherlock’s shoulder. He felt the contact, the resistance, Sherlock’s shoulder muscles tensing and pushing back and suddenly Jim was getting hard again, and frankly could’ve wept with frustration. This would be their seventh time in a day and he wasn’t getting any closer to satisfaction. Being this close to Sherlock was just skirting the edge of a wide abyss and screaming. Jim kicked away the sheets, suddenly stifling, and covered his face with his hands.  


The smell of surf forced its way through the white shutters.


	2. Maine

When Jim woke up again, the sun had long-since disappeared and Sherlock was gone. The bed was cold, which meant he’d been gone for a while. Which, of course, meant there wasn’t much point searching the halls. If Sherlock wanted to hide from him, he’d be able to, at least for a few hours.

Cursing fluently, dipping at random into Gaelic and French, Jim made his way to the bathroom. The shower took ages to heat up and the pressure was shite when it finally did. 

Jim scrubbed his skin with pink milled soap. The tiny bottle of shampoo was almost out. So his detective had showered first. He was clean somewhere smelling like a verdant fucking garden. A wave of rage threatened to tip him over. He pressed a palm to the cold tile and took a jagged breath. Richard would've adored this place. Jim from IT would’ve slit his wrists to even have Sherlock on holiday with him, but those idiots flailed and faltered, ran around after their obsession like chickens with their heads cut off. Jim had to utterly, endlessly understand Sherlock.

Gradually the rage was replaced by a jolt of longing, and he ducked his head under the spray, groaning at himself. Sometimes the characters seeped in, stirred parts of him and made him burn.  

His mobile had been returned to the bedside table. He stood naked, scrubbing at his hair with a towel as he unlocked and scrolled through. There was a new text from Sebastian, saying he’d be there by morning. Attached to that, there was a reply message typed out and unsent. One word:

MOSCOW

The word sent a cold shiver through Jim’s body and before his mind fully registered panic, he was angrily pulling on clothes. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock. It was NOTHING -” A T-shirt, sticking to his skin where it was still damp from the shower. Pants he wasn't completely sure were his own and an extremely crumpled pair of jeans. His eyes were red as he laced his sneakers and berated himself. “Just - just BOREDOM. You can't be angry at me for boredom - It's what we're GOOD at -” 

Moscow. Moscow was where he'd found Sherlock. After the fall. The man's arm had broken and re-healed in three places, he'd self-stitched a facial wound, but more importantly, he'd been stoned out of his mind.

 


	3. Moscow

Where are you? JM

In hell, shaking your hand. SH

Moran had to kill three drug dealers today. Care to venture a guess as to why? JM

Because you're prone to overreaction and you don't like getting your hands dirty? SH

Noooooo...... because they were reckless. And they gave my poor baby enough cocaine to drown a whale. JM

That metaphor is insane and I'm hardly 'your poor baby'. SH

I’m so disappointed in you, Sherlock. Making such a cowardly DULL exit. JM

The relative cowardice of my death would only matter if I planned on coming back and therefore had any chance of being aversely affected. SH

Tsk. Tsk. Not very moral-sounding. Johnny would disapprove. JM

If memory serves, my amorality is a large part of what attracts you. SH

I'm not fooling around, Sherlock. I'm not so dead I couldn't still kill all your friends. Kindly tell Daddy where you are. JM

Ugh. I can see Lomonosov from my window. Google it. SH

Well someone's being very rude today. JM

Intentionally so. SH

Mm hmm. Which makes quite a change, doesn't it? JM

Sherlock? JM 

I'll stop calling myself Daddy if you answer, dear. For a whole week. JM


	4. Moscow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In case it's not clear, this line of events takes place before Maine.

Moscow was lit up like a Christmas tree, storefronts were draped in white lights and street-corner trees were declaring ‘С новым годом’. The gutters and sidewalks were swamped with deep, cold puddles from a snow that kept falling in clumps and melting on impact.  


Jim was destroying a perfectly good pair of Italian leather boots, tromping around through steel-colored skies and constructivist architecture with the hurried, confused air of a tourist. He’d established a general perimeter around the university, had worked out the best path on the plane, and was now methodically searching out Sherlock’s signal, periodically hailing lifts from passing cars, giving his accent an overly thick turn, and paying from a hammer-and-sickle money clip.  


He wore a fur hat stuffed low on his head and a thick, cheap coat over comfortably stylish, temperature inappropriate clothing. As a disguise, it worked, though the selection hadn’t been intentional. He’d started out in one of his better suits. Then, ten thousand feet over Gdansk, he’d woken up to Sebastian pressing a wad of rough paper under his nose. There had been blood everywhere, an apparently spontaneous gush from his left nostril. It was the sort of stress nosebleed with which bullied adolescence had made him so familiar.  


When he picked up Sherlock’s signal, his search radius narrowed considerably. Views of Lomonosov suggested a higher floor of course, yet Sherlock’s doctored passport and the necessity that he pay in cash knocked off most of the venues accustomed to tourist traffic.  


For a moment he considered the possibility that Sherlock was staying with a friend. He quickly dismissed it. No one indifferent to Sherlock could put up with him as a housemate, and no one attached to him could allow him this downward spiral. It wasn’t perfect reasoning, but it was convincing enough to reassure him, and with a quick text to Sebastian, he pursued the hotel he himself would’ve preferred.  
It was a skinny appendage at the edge of a series of blocky, faceless apartments conjoined in a courtyard. It was easy to overlook, probably easy to escape since the back windows faced a tight alley and a series of ledges.  


Hands stuffed in his pockets, Jim crossed the cramped little street through an overabundance of parked cars. The sun had either set or the clouds had gotten denser, and there was almost no light when he entered the courtyard. An old woman with a cane hobbled past him from the park. She was a little too curious at the sight of his face, as some old women could be. Something in his expression was too naked and had startled her. She was just beginning to brandish a fist at him as he disappeared through the heavy door.  


The lobby was mostly just a stairwell. There was a worn rug extending past concrete stairs to the end, where the fogged glass of an office door glowed yellow. A ribbon of painted words informed him virulently that all visitors must announce themselves. What a shame that Richard Brook couldn’t read cyrillic.  


He took the stairs, closing his eyes as he walked up into darkness. A thrill of irrationality told him he’d picked the right spot. He could hear the squeak of floorboards from 221B, which he knew was just this side of schizophrenic, and yet his heart pounded and a warm glow of excitement spread through him. He sniffed the air hoping for the scent of chemicals and decay, burnt toast and tea.  


He paused on the step just before the first landing and pulled out his phone. By the light of three hours of unanswered texts, he took in the doorways: just two, on either side. A window across from him revealed a thoroughly underwhelming backside view of another building.  


Still not high enough up yet. But if this was Sherlock’s building, the man had taken the time to unscrew the only light bulb.  
With a grin he couldn’t help, though a fairly novel excess of fear was still making everything sharp and immediate, he switched his phone to the torch app and crouched to inspect the floor.  


The smell had given it away. A cyanoacrylate mixture had been applied to the stone. Every shoe walking past this landing would squeak and leave a trail. The blotch was oblong and curved, nearly circular, yet it was far too thick at the edges, never tapering. It mimicked a large spill, but not very convincingly.  


His grin grew feral. Jim touched his fingers to the sticky floor and breathed it in.  


“Sherlock,” he whispered to himself.


	5. Moscow

Jim was crouched in front of Sherlock’s door with a bent paperclip, working on the keyhole, catching periodic, teasing glimpses of the room on the other side: a chipped, white wall and the sort of table normal people used to store their keys and incidental purchases. Sherlock’s long coat had been cast over a stack of inexplicable roof tiles. There was a landline telephone with wires pulled out.  


The rest of the flat extended to the right and back, down a corridor, past a bathroom, possibly a closet, towards a bed. All but the terminus of the bed was obscured, but he could just make out a lump, extending nearly off the edge, under a faded pink quilt.  


Without quite realizing it, he’d paused in his work. His breathing had stilled. He wanted to see movement, some indication of Sherlock’s life.  


Then that familiar, low voice and Jim actually gasped at the wave of emotion it brought. “You’re taking a ridiculously long time at that. It’s left, back and up, in case you can’t find the mechanism.”  


Suppressing an urge to just kick the fucking door in, Jim frowned and returned to his labors. The space between them was filled yet again with soft clinking sounds of metal on metal. “You could always just let me in.”  


The lump, now clearly Sherlock’s feet, turned and kicked pointlessly at the sheets. There was a high rumble of delirious laughter. “And you could always just knock. Have you EVER knocked?”  


It took him too long to pull himself out of bed, and then Jim watched him stumble, his world clearly rimmed with cocaine. He was too tall and mostly out of frame as he supported himself down the hall. That ratty house robe Jim had only glimpsed in tabloid photos. A white T-shirt and purple-striped flannel bottoms. Sherlock leaned with both hands on the table in the entryway, gathering strength. And then Jim reached the correct pin and the lock clicked. The door sprang a few inches forward, revealing Jim on his knees, the fur hat at his side and a paper clip slowly returning to his pocket.  


He flashed a mischievous grin up at his nemesis, winded and dulled by narcotics though he was.  


“Honey, I’m hoooome,” he sang playfully.  


As Jim rose, Sherlock lurched forward and pressed a palm to the front of his coat. He stayed there, several inches too close as Jim looked him over with concern. More wrinkles, though death had done far worse to people, and his curls seemed darker, which suggested he was going prematurely gray. Jim reached out to touch them, holding Sherlock upright with one arm as he did so. He considered making a comment about the rather clumsy dye job, but he didn't. The slack look on Sherlock’s face, and the proximity barrier, apparently now broken by that handshake on the roof, focused him to the point of pain.  


In a much more serious tone, he asked, “How much did you take?”  
Sherlock's eyes didn't register the question. “I nearly got arrested in Saint Petersburg. Kissing a man. Apparently that sort of thing is frowned upon. Can't go back there.”  


Jim swallowed drily. He maneuvered Sherlock back a few steps and kicked the door closed.  


“Are you sure it wasn’t for being high, arrogant and DEAD while kissing a man in Saint Petersburg?”  


Sherlock nodded but didn’t otherwise answer. Jim stroked a gloved hand along Sherlock’s cheek and watched with wide eyes as the man leaned in.  


“I frightened another old lady just now. Beginning to think they’re a bit like dogs, you know. At least certain of them.”  


Sherlock chuckled and pressed his forehead against Jim’s. “Mm. They can sense evil.”  


Jim clenched roughly at the collar of Sherlock’s robe, sucking in a feral breath and pushing Sherlock back a step as he surged forward. That close, he could feel every swallow and self-conscious click of his jaw. He stared into Sherlock's pupils and watched them dilate between blinks.  


“Sherlock.” Jim could feel Sherlock giving way. The man's eyes fully closed.  


“I took too much.”  


“Shh. I know." Jim blinked slowly. Sherlock was so near he could feel him fading. "But. You waited for me. Must’ve been several days before you injected.”  


Sherlock whined when Jim’s weight shifted, but he acquiesced to being led towards the bed. “Aren’t you going to kill me?” His breathing had leveled out and he didn't seem remotely concerned. Jim shifted the covers for him and helped him climb under.  


“Nooo. I’m going to get you cold water and a bucket. Wouldn’t be much of a game if I killed you now. Rather like strangling a rabbit I’d been keeping in a cage.” When Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, Jim pressed a rough kiss to temple, staying very close for a long time, stroking his hair before he moved away.


	6. Moscow/Maine

Jim hurriedly threw their soiled bedding aside as he groped around under the bed for his wallet. 

The hummels on the bedside table shook until one fell to the ground. Jim’s eyes followed the tiny thud with a light chuckle. Past a throbbing migraine of overlapping thoughts, the image of the little thing went gray and shorted out until Jim was only seeing Sherlock’s pale skin, clammy with sweat as he’d fought through withdrawals on that bed in Moscow. 

How he’d held him afterwards, stroking the sweaty curls from his face, bringing a filter tip between his lips, helping him smoke through the worst of it while they listened to the rain. The way Sherlock reached up to hold Jim’s wrist and how Jim watched, transfixed, as those long, dexterous fingers transformed into things both beautiful and fragile. 

“I never thought you’d be dainty.”

“Yes you did.” Sherlock’s teeth were gritted, but only around ten percent of it was anger-induced.

“Hm. Yes. I guess what I mean to say is I never thought I’d like it.”

He compulsively felt for the bed and tried to reach for Sherlock. 

When he ripped through nothing but cold sheets, he felt a swell of vindictive rage. That Sherlock had left him. That he’d endangered himself again.

*

“Your face.” It was a question, though there was no intonation of one.

“Altercation. Couldn’t exactly go to hospital.”

“You’ve been clubbing.”

A grunt in response.

“Has the underwear trick been working for you then?” With his thumb, he pushed Sherlock’s pajama bottoms lower, snaking down well below his hipbone. When a band of lime green appeared, Jim chuckled and ran his fingers over the edge. 

He could still feel so much blood, thick and sticky on his hands, from games he’d played. Blood he hadn’t yet gotten to show Sherlock. He only wanted to show Sherlock. Because Sherlock would like it and Sherlock would understand. It took all his strength not to kiss that elegantly curved neck where the pulse was drumming. 

He pulled back when Sherlock blushed and went rigid.

*

The old stairs creaked as he descended. The slow drag of panic over his nerves. His knees went weak on the third-floor landing and, with a chuckle at his own expense, he paused to stabilize himself. His eyes kept scanning – windowsills and irregular nails – catching on ash and dust, hoarding everything in his memory like weapons in case Sherlock asked for them. 

Hands moving up his own arm, scratching his shoulder and feeling himself tremble. He caught a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He felt sick about Sherlock’s frailty. He hadn’t felt that way before, though perhaps he should have. 

There were no lights on, just the creeping gray of moonlight through the window. He started moving again and a marginal amount of dust rose with each step. Increasingly nautical pictures clattered around him. 

Sebastian would be there soon and then it wouldn’t matter anymore.

*

After the teasing about his underwear, it was hours before either of them spoke. 

“I landed incorrectly.” 

Jim moved his jaw to Sherlock’s shoulder. “I know.”

“I… it broke.”

Jim chuckled and ran his fingers up the man’s left arm, pressing hard enough to read the healed fractures like brail. “So did my skull. Took a hell of a time healing.” 

“I don’t –” Sherlock was swallowing thickly. It was charming how he could get so awkward about certain things.

“Yeess,” Jim encouraged him. He breathed on Sherlock’s neck and dragged his lips against the skin. “You don’t understand,” he supplied gently.

*

A turn on the ground floor revealed a half-empty display of sightseeing pamphlets. A museum of dolls and a house filled with antique seafaring equipment. And then a few of the pieces fell into place and he knew Sherlock was leaving breadcrumbs. 

He pushed outside. The night air was cold and he bore through it while the ground sucked playfully at Richard’s shoes. 

He rounded to the back lawn. The wind picked up as Jim’s eyes held fixed into the darkness. The moon hung close to the water, almost touching the large, still shards of itself below. 

He knew there was a path running along the beach, leading into town by back alleys. He confronted it in quick, short strides, hopping down into rocky sand and coming up quickly to the wood-paneled walk. 

He paused and dug his hands in his pockets. There was nothing except heavy black stones now between himself and the entire fucking Atlantic. And beyond the cove, that little lighthouse was cast in darkness, not functioning, probably replaced by a stronger beam stationed farther off.

After a few seconds, a grin tipped his head. And with realization, his gut twisted and a hot rush of blood pumped to his groin. Jim from IT rose up in him with a ripple of overpowering adulation and he started into the dark.


	7. Moscow/Maine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This might end up being 9 chapters, but I'll try to end it in 8. I swear I have a plan.... ish.  
> Comments would be much appreciated. <3

The clues Sherlock left were painfully obvious; even intentionally disrespectful. All the windows were nailed shut, and yet all three windowsills held a collection of incongruous tobacco ash: the first pile was smoked from an inexplicably damp tip, the next had fallen in quavering zigzags (signaling a harsher substance's involvement), and the last was largely un-inhaled (an indication of inattention or the pauses of a conversation). 

Then the stand of tourist pamphlets - notable only for its barrenness - its lack of a certain thing. Every photograph of the lighthouse had been removed.

*

"You're saying you're a ghost then." Sherlock's voice was a deadpan. He expected it all to be a trick.

Jim was taking quiet, steadying breaths, curled intimately against Sherlock’s back, a grin playing on his lips where Sherlock couldn’t see it. “You’re me, Sherlock. And I’m you. We were always connected. Is it really so surprising you can still see me?” He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s neck again and murmured, “The sensation of touch is just signals translated by the brain.”

Sherlock went still again, holding his breath to analyze the various sensations raking through his body. Jim continued.

“All it would take is one frayed wire. A scientific mind like yours wouldn’t believe in the supernatural but…” His fingers dipped under Sherlock’s waistband again to trace the prominent hipbone. This time Sherlock wasn’t resisting him. There had been a shift – infinitesimal though it was – and now the man’s curiosity was outpacing his nervousness. “Well. You know. The HOUND. Hallucination is real enough, isn’t it?”

Sherlock’s hand clutched at Jim’s wrist, feeling the tension in his muscles, the sheer effort it took to hold that hand back. Jim chuckled again. 

“You’re going to say you can –”

“I can feel your hesitation. Miniscule, muscular vacillations reflecting your wavering state of mind before a decision's been reached. You’ve decided what you want, but you’re holding still and your heart is pounding. So, that’s… enjoyment of – of the potential consequences of an action before the fact. Enjoyment of the abstract.”

“Ooh did someone just figure out what foreplay is?”

Sherlock’s teeth audibly ground together. His hold on Jim’s arm tightened and his voice came back stronger than before, more certain. “It’s too complicated. YOU’RE too complicated to be just a – a figment. Hallucinations are – ”

“Other people’s. Generally. Your drugged mind is still annoyingly based in complex yet logical frameworks.”

Then, with a sigh, as if the action was nothing at all, he snaked his hand down into Sherlock’s pants.

Sherlock stayed tense, but not enough to stop the movement. He merely felt Jim’s pulse jump as his fingers stroked over Sherlock’s length.

*

A direct path to the lighthouse would’ve been quicker, but the gleaming rocks were too perilous to navigate without an actual torch. After a few abortive attempts, he was forced to accept momentary defeat. His eyes trained on the small silhouette as he traveled instead along a circuitous run of grass. The lighthouse grew larger with agonizing slowness. The loudest thought in his head was an urge to run his tongue up Sherlock’s spine.

When he’d made it at least halfway, the approaching dawn was spreading a calm pink over the water. Each and every rock gleamed inhospitably against the new light. It was just enough to forge an attempt. Jim cursed and turned his feet to the task. Cautious, balancing steps at first. His soles squeaked and fought the slippery surface, then set a wobbling pace.

A few yards out, an embarrassing misstep knocked him completely on his arse. His jeans tore at his knee, where he landed to balance himself. His hand scraped on impact. A superficial wound where his head met rock. Blood matted at his temple. It was painful enough that his arousal fell away. Some of the cobwebs cleared, too. Now, no longer nagged by any particular urge to mimic, tease or fuck, he was fighting back the throbbing drums of rage and boredom instead. When he finally came to the little outcropping of land attached to the lighthouse, his eyes raked over the structure's windowless, white facade. The sun was just peaking up over the sea and there was a blue scarf tied around the broken entrance lock. A petulant whine rose in his voice, rising in tandem with a feral growl for attention. 

He ran a hand through his hair, flattening a few of its wilder angles and entered the lighthouse shouting.


End file.
